


Bending The Rules

by Heliopause Entertainments (sleepy_wrestler)



Series: Peacekeeping [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Non-graphic injuries, Other characters are present for a few seconds and I didn't want to clog their tags, Post-Transformers: Lost Light 25, Rejection-Sensitive Dysphoria, Swearing, oblivious Megatron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27672677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepy_wrestler/pseuds/Heliopause%20Entertainments
Summary: Rodimus tries to bring the outside in for a friend and a peacekeeping mission turns into a fiasco.
Relationships: Megatron/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Series: Peacekeeping [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986511
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: Time units: decacycle - ~ 3 weeks, cycle - ~ 1.25 hours, orn - ~ 1.5 days
> 
> Contains blatant depictions of inattentive ADHD as written by someone with inattentive ADHD

The front viewport on the bridge was filled with the image of an organic representative of the Galactic Council, here to interrogate the command crew of the _Lost Light_ via a live video feed. They had a long, narrow green face with sharp protrusions on either side which gave them a harsh appearance. When the feed first opened, Rodimus had opened his mouth to say something only for Megatron to pointedly cough and immediately put an end to any comments relating to ‘stupid hats’ or any other vitriol that he could possibly dredge up. No amount of disapproval from his co-captain, however, stopped him from glaring right back at the reproving creature on the overly large screen.

On the other side of the bridge a crackling holographic projection of Optimus Prime frowned solemnly at the command crew from his pedestal. Well, he frowned as much as he could from behind a face mask that covered his mouth. Rodimus was used to that expression though, as it was something he’d gotten frequently enough over millions of years that he could pick it out even with the mask. At least he had a small amount of comfort from the fact that Megatron was also _quite_ aware of that self-same frown, a result of being another regular recipient of the expression, though, of course, for markedly different reasons. What a weird thing to have in common with the hopefully reformed mass murderer he now called a friend. Huh.

The _ad hoc_ meeting format was really quite a testament to the unusual—no, that’s an understatement—the downright _bizarre_ jurisdiction and chain of command on this damn tub. It was his _own_ privately-owned ship, for one, purchased for him as a gift by Drift. The third-in-command, however, wasn’t being called on the carpet today and was standing far in the back, mercifully away from judging eyes. His role today was to bear witness and step in as second if Ultra Magnus was asked to assume command should Rodimus and Megatron be found in breach of contract. 

The ship flew _no_ colors, absolutely no badges or allegiances painted on the hull. It simply happened to be mostly crewed by Cybertronians of a generally Autobot affiliation... plus the quite notable one—still an Autobot _somehow_ —that Optimus Prime had forced upon them a few years prior. Technically, according to Ultra Magnus, in all of his magnificent—if incomprehensible—legal jargon, that had been an act of extralegal governmental overreach. Damn right it was. It was _Rodimus’_ void-damned ship.

Weirder was that, due to Rodimus’ own _selfless heroism_ , something he felt he didn’t get _nearly_ enough credit for, custody of the ‘prisoner’—as if the force of Megatron’s personality could be contained—was joint between the Galactic Council and the Cybertronian government—well, the military wing of it anyway, which was why Optimus was here and not Starscream. _That’s_ a processor-ache absolutely no one needed, thanks. He could practically hear a vicious duel of words between the pompous jet and Megatron right now. The two of them in a room—or on a commlink—was always the worst.

It was almost funny, he thought, hands balled into fists behind his aching back as he watched the screen, at how the video feed distorted scale, making the presumably scowling face of the representative loom large over them all. They would have hardly come halfway up Rodimus’ shin if this ‘meeting’ were in person. He wasn’t even a tall mech. Tall, imposing bots like Megatron and Ultra Magnus would absolutely _dwarf_ their momentary handler. One step and squish—how _gross_ , had to be so damn careful around tiny organics—Oh, slag, they’re talking. Better pay attention; it’s kinda important.

“Now that we’re _all_ present,” began the representative, “we can determine what’s to be done about the breach of contract. From what we’ve seen so far there is little by way of evidence to suggest that we do anything short of sending a team to collect the entirety of your captaincy for the penalty outlined by the contract.” The penalty, of course, being offlined and disassembled. As though they could ever hope to take him alive—No, he _had_ agreed… in order that Megatron might live.

Optimus could be heard clearing his vocalizer but Rodimus didn’t want to look at that frown anymore. Instead he kept his optics trained on the face on the view-screen. The representative was probably scowling at them. Hard to tell. Rodimus wasn’t even sure exactly which bit was the mouth. Or the eyes. Ears? Are those ears? Or horns? Damn. No idea. Organics made little sense.

“I _suggest—_ “ No one in the room could have interpreted that tone as a suggestion but, sure, the older Prime was allowed to try. And the younger, no-longer-a-Prime-exactly didn’t have to believe a word of it. “—that we get a full report of the situation first. I’m sure there is a _good explanation_ for what happened.”

Another unintended result of his ‘rescue’ of Megatron from the very jaws of death—yet _again_ —was that now, Rodimus himself functioned as _not only_ the appointed warden for the repurposed prison for one _as well_ as the collateral should the creaky old bastard violate the agreement. Rodimus maybe liked to remind Megatron of this fact _occasionally_ , okay, all of the time. All he’d wanted to do was save his friend and keep the life of grand adventure with those he was close to going. He glanced over to the tall, oddly calm mech who stood next to him. Always so stoic and dignified on the surface, even in the face of potentially being offlined. Such a stark contrast to how he himself always found himself flipping Death the bird and calling it obscene names. Out of all of the things he was learned from the old coot, facing fate with a serene dignity was not among them.

“Let me begin the report by _assuring_ you that all actions taken were within the bounds of our agreed upon restrictions and in the scope of our duties as a peacekeeping vessel.” Ultra Magnus, ever the thoroughly-prepared mech, dutifully pulled a datapad out of his subspace as he stood on the other side of Rodimus. He figured the datapad probably contained the entirety of the text of their legal agreement, fully annotated with copious notes. Beautiful. If anyone could spot a loophole, it would have been good ol’ Mags. He loved all that legal slag for some damn reason. It was oddly cute. If they got out of this, Rodimus reminded himself to tell Magnus later. He deserved more recognition for all of his legal contortionist work.

Both captains stood there silently, letting Ultra Magnus do the talking for them this time, even if Rodimus was only _just_ biting back a string of unprintable obscenities. Megatron had admitted—‘shamefully’ the old mech had called it—to not being familiar enough with Galactic Council legal codes to argue on their behalf. Rodimus always appreciated when the know-it-all blowhard admitted to ignorance, like he was being shown a vulnerability as an act of trust. He looked back over to see Megatron still holding himself with a stiff, ruler-straight posture, hands clasped politely behind his back. He’d called that stance ‘parade rest’ once, for whatever fucking reason. Rodimus hadn’t even noticed that he’d half-imitated the posture, not that he could draw himself up to full height without pain. The burns on his shoulders were still healing. Somehow his co-captain’s calm disposition was comforting, even if it was stupid.

Yeah, saving his sorry ex-Decepticon behind was worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

A number of orns prior, Rodimus pushed open the door to the— _his own, thank you_ —captain’s office on the bridge, not even waiting for the door to retract automatically. Sure, apparently that damaged the door mechanisms but he didn’t really care that much. _Whatever_ , it could be fixed. He was in a _hurry_. No time to waste delivering the most _awesome_ lump of rock that he found on the planet they’d just left. The old bastard was sure to love this memento of the outside universe. It would be _just_ the fix for a blue mood. 

Magnus had been saying that Megatron was lamenting his loss of access to the outside, to the ground and sky. The eternal night awash with infinite stars could only uplift and enrapture the spark so much. Still, what a sad sack, Rodimus thought, but then again good ol’ Megs wasn’t allowed to take part in shore leave. That must suck, Rodimus had agreed when their second-in-command had explained. Well, they couldn’t be having that. Both halves of the captaincy needed to have good morale if this stupid star boat was going to chug along harmoniously for any length of time. That and neither he nor Magnus could stand the sight of their former warlord sulking—‘taking stock’, _please_. It was sad, like _embarrassingly_ sad. 

Luckily Drift—what a reliable bestie—had provided the gift idea which had saved a lot of effort on having to come up with something appropriate. As much as he generally liked giving gifts, he always struggled with _what_ to give. Rodimus felt so proud of himself as he approached Megatron’s desk with the lump of sedimentary rock in his servos. He really owed Drift a debt for this one. What a wingman—wait, that was probably the wrong tone. The grey mech, unaware of his impending _awesome_ present, was leaned over the desk like usual, staring at a report like he was _actually_ reading it. Not that Rodimus didn’t _read_ reports, but sometimes he couldn’t quite focus enough—like his brain module was just full of static sometimes. Despite what Megatron regularly said about Rodimus needing to do things on his own, the old bastard seemed pretty content to summarize important information for him as necessary. His spark skipped a spin. Maybe it was the _right_ tone after all.

Rodimus put his empty hand on the corner of the table, leaning his weight on it like a practiced show-off. “Hey, Megs, look what I got—“

“I’m busy.” _Bastard._

Rodimus sighed, shaking his head but otherwise not moving away. In fact, he leaned closer, trying to stuff himself bodily between his co-captain and the datapad he’d been perusing, just short of basically falling into the older mech’s lap again. Honestly, he’d been _shocked_ that he hadn’t been thrown off the last time. Did Megatron just have no concept of personal space? Oh well, oddly convenient then. “No, seriously, you’re always busy but like you can spare a couple of minutes for this. I got you something _totally_ cool, my dude.”

The low growl as Megatron sat up and pushed himself a bit away from the desk for breathing room told Rodimus he’d gotten someone’s undivided attention. _Perfect._

“ _Fine._ What is this ‘cool’ thing you’ve brought me?” Rodimus was beginning to regret teaching him about air quotes. Every time Megatron used them, they were somehow even more scathing. Whatever. Too late now. Besides he had this cool-ass rock and _that_ was what was most important.

“Ta-da!” With a million shanix grin and half a song in his voice, he held out the tan and brown, jagged lump of minerals, putting it basically right in his co-captain’s face. Unfortunately, that winning smile wasn’t reciprocated. In fact, Megatron scrunched up one side of his face, like someone had pinched his cheek right next to his nose. Ah. The look of affronted, yet underwhelmed judgment. Rodimus had gotten that one before. He was starting to get quite good at recognizing the nuance in the old mech’s scowls. They were generally pointed at him these days after all. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to resent those scowls. They meant Megatron was both _alive_ and paying attention to _him_. What a _stupid_ thing to want.

“ _Oh, c’mon!_ Don’t look at me like that. I got you this dope rock from that planet we just stopped at. I know you can’t go outside but I brought some _outside_ in for you!”

“A _rock_?”

“Yeah, it’s like a sedimentary rock. You know, one of those that gets made when minerals get deposited by water or something. You’d probably know better—“ He paused. He actually didn’t stop to think at any point if Megatron even _liked_ rocks, given that he didn’t exactly _choose_ to be a miner all those years ago. “Well, about different sorts of rocks anyway. Thought maybe it’d help cheer you up since you’ve been so mopey. Can’t be having you mope like a dead mech walking—” Maybe that was bad word choice. Rodimus’ jaw abruptly shifted sideways in _immediate_ , unspoken apology. 

For now he only received another frown—this one much less of a scowl and more melancholic disappointment—in return, which made him feel the need to fill the suddenly dead air with words, even if those words maybe didn’t make any sense. Something about this situation hurt in a familiar way that told him he’d be ruminating on how this went wrong, on how Megatron probably _hated_ his guts, for several cycles, maybe even orns. Might as well offline himself now and save the trouble.

“It’s got these cool stripes from the different layers over time and, uh—“ _Slag._ He held the fist-sized stone up and pointed at some of the striations with one of his servos. “Uh, yeah, thought it was, um, pretty cool. You know, like a record of what went down on the planet over the years. Almost like a time capsule sort of thing—” Dammit, he was floundering and making himself look like an _absolute fool_ , more so than usual.

“You brought me a _rock_.” The deadpan voice of exasperation. That was just adding to the sheer amounts of unpleasant social feedback he’d have to process and kick himself over later when no one was looking. _Great, thanks for that, Megs. Just what I needed._ He really needed more disapproval in his life, as though he wasn’t already in a glut of the stuff. Would it kill the bastard to smile at him? Rodimus just wanted to help after all. Those smiles were so rare. Was it so wrong to see one directed at _him_? Wait, why did he even _want_ that?

“C’mon, Megs, what do you want me to do? I can’t bring you an entire _planet_. That’s ridiculous—” Rodimus slapped the rock down on the desk. _Ingrate._ “I just wanted to cheer you up; you’ve been moping around even more than usual and I just can’t—“

“Did you forget your microdose of stimulant again this morning?” Megatron crossed his arms, optics narrowed in a way that Rodimus struggled to interpret. Is that _concern_? That one was always harder to identify, _rare_ as it was. Concern, nor any other _warm_ feelings for that matter, wasn’t really on the list of things associated with the warlord. Rodimus paid so much attention to the abundance of negative cues and expressions that he’d gotten throughout life—especially since launching the _Lost Light_ and particularly from Captain Austere Pessimism and their mutual friend Ultra Meticulous—that sometimes he had difficulty processing anything else someone threw his way. Concern was, unfortunately, one of those things. It made his spark skip another dreadful spin. Maybe it was the medical training the bastard had picked up in that other universe. Yeah, that must have been it, not _personal_ concern.

“ _No_ —hey, man, I thought we agreed you weren’t going to ask that anymore.” That was like _incredibly_ personal, okay? He’d shared that with Megatron in confidence, given that the mech was generally a steel trap as far as secrets were concerned and because they were _friends_. Weren’t they? Hello, doubt.

They both opened their mouths simultaneously to say something, which was usually how an argument _really_ got started. A typical feature was complaining at the same time about some slag or another, neither of them really hearing anything but volume and noise. It was a curious _communion_ of nothing but chaos. 

The argument itself was always really a symptom of communication having already broken down. This time, however, before any actual words escaped, they were stopped at the mouth-agape and vindictive-finger-pointing stage by Ultra Magnus—bless him and his miraculous timing—clearing his vocalizer in the doorway.

“Captains, we have an incoming distress call from a nearby civilization. The signal seems a little unusual, but as you’re, _of course_ , aware we’re _obligated_ to at least _investigate_.”

Ever tactful and cautious, that guy. Unfortunately, it seemed that this call wasn’t made up just to interrupt the spate of bickering that had probably been audible to the entire bridge thanks to Rodimus’ unfortunate lack of volume control. It really helped with projecting when trying to give a rousing, inspiring speech though it ruined any chances he might have had at keeping arguments private. Double-edged sword and all that.

Megatron calmly put his palms on the desk, notably eying the rock he’d all but outright rejected for a moment before standing. “Of course.”

“Yeah, sure. Be right there, Mags.”


	3. Chapter 3

The tone of the familiar voice over the comm told him that a certain co-captain was taking the less-than-ideal turn of events while clearing the supposed ‘bandit camp’ rather personally even if the words were _technically_ scolding Rodimus for mounting a spontaneous distraction. He sighed, looking around the thicket for anything that might conceal his ostentatious paint-job. 

“Megs, I know this comes as a shock to you, but you’re not _omniscient_.” _Thank Primus for that too,_ Rodimus thought. There were plenty of things he’d rather Megatron not know. He was _also_ quite proud of showing off a vocabulary word, a subtle reminder to his co-captain that he wasn’t stupid. 

“It’ll be fine. Y’know, just get the crew out of here and we’ll figure it out from there, okay?” He ducked behind a boulder just as shrill clicking speech his translator couldn’t quite pick up approached from the other side of the clearing.

Why hadn’t Megatron responded with something _cutting_ yet? Weird. He pushed the comm buttons on his wrist panel a couple of times, checking to see if maybe he was on mute or the internal audio portion wasn’t working. Nope. Dead air. Communications must have been cut. That probably also meant visual feeds were gone and he couldn’t be seen either. The clicking got closer.

Dammit.

Something _had_ been off about the distress call they received a couple of orns ago. The organic leader who’d reached out to them on the screen had seemed nervous. Sure, that could have been chalked up to a combination of not understanding this species’ social cues and the fact that some sort of bandits had been camped out near the settlement this particular organic oversaw. 

The request had been _simple_ in principle: remove the bad guys, arrest them, and ship them off to the GC for processing or whatever. Sure. That was something the crew was more than capable of. At any rate, they hadn’t been in a position to refuse, per their agreement. They were only allowed to refuse a peacekeeping assistance request from Galactic Council members if doing so would somehow violate other aspects of their agreement, or other applicable laws. This request didn’t violate any rules so here they were.

Well, here Rodimus was anyway.

_Alone._

Without a voice from above telling him the best way out of the upended situation. Perhaps, Rodimus thought, he’d come to rely on that voice too much in previous missions. He’d never needed the assistance before; he just kind of _did_ stuff and magically managed to not die. None of that really lessened the weird weight in his chest at being cut off, isolated. He’d told Megatron not to leave his sight and then here he was, having been a complete hypocrite.

When the supposed bandit camp had been found abandoned—only a few scattered, half-built shelters and a few empty crates haphazardly left around to make it look like a camp from a distance—and the small away crew had been surrounded by black-clothed, knee-high organics with firearms trained on them, the game was up. They’d walked into a void-damned trap. Something Tarnish and probably mildly obscene had been hissed into the comm. Rodimus had thrown something explosive, though he couldn’t have explained where he had gotten it at the time what with the chaos unfolding around them. The crew had reluctantly—especially Whirl—scrambled back for the shuttle under orders from above and Rodimus, against those same orders, had gone in the other direction to draw the fire and otherwise be a distraction. Good captains protect their crew, he had told himself. It had been something he had failed at so many times before with the rare notable exception.

The clicking was closing in on his location and he really didn’t _have_ a better place to hide at the moment. Rodimus had wasted too much precious time trying to figure out why his comm hadn’t been working and spiraling about stupid slag _again_. Now he’d basically gotten himself cornered. He was too large to easily maneuver around the tall, tree-like foliage of the thicket he’d hidden in. His paint made him stand out like a sore servo. While he could have theoretically used another one of those explosives he had stashed away in his subspace—honestly, the safest place for unstable Brainstorm-brand explosives—he doubted lighting this rather flammable-looking ecosystem on fire would be a great idea. Their relationship with the Galactic Council was already pretty rocky and causing serious damage to an organic biosphere would look not good. 

See? Sometimes he _did_ think about the consequences of his actions. _Suck it, Megs, you old fuck._

But in order to actually tell him that, Rodimus would have to get out from behind this stupid rock first—Oh, little alien creatures with large guns pointed right at him filled his field of vision. _Great._ He’d had really awful luck with rocks lately.

“Hi!” _Big smile, like you mean it._

Rodimus uneasily rubbed his hands together, optics darting around to get a full measure of just how many of these bastards were penning him in. Sure, he could probably step on them or kick them, but that wouldn’t solve his maneuverability problem. Also that’d be gross in a way he didn’t want to deal with. The aliens continued to click among themselves for a few moments before one switched to something that could be picked up by the translator. 

“We’re taking you prisoner.”

Well, that was clear as crystal. 

_Wait. Wait. **Idea.**_

Slowly, he raised his hands into the air, palms outward as though to signal that he wasn’t going to be a threat. An absolute lie, but he would argue that lying to people with guns trained on you was a ‘tactical decision.’

“Alright, alright, you got me. Damn, but could you guys maybe _not_ point those peashooters at me? I’d appreciate that.”


	4. Chapter 4

“What we had thought was simply a mission to apprehend criminals, had, in fact, been an elaborate ruse—” Rodimus wanted to interrupt and explain that actually it had been a damn _stupid_ ruse—that they _still_ fell for—but he kept his trap shut this time. _This time_. Mags owed him. “—set up by the Black Block Consortia.”

“The Black Block Consortia?” The Galactic Council’s representative moved part of their… face to the side. Rodimus decided that must be part of their jaw. What expression was the supposed to be? He didn’t get it, but presumably they were displeased with this news of their splinter sect running roughshod over a planet _nominally_ under their protection. Optimus remained, perhaps wisely, silent while the representative continued. “Whatever would they be doing out _here_?”

Ultra Magnus cleared his vocalizer with a cough to dispel built-up static, one hand closed behind his straightened back as he prepared to read aloud from his notes. “It appears that they had been blackmailing the overseer of one of the settlements on this planet for years and had finally decided to collect on the debt by using that leverage to set an ambush for the away team. In the course of this ambush, Captain Rodimus was captured.” 

It was no secret that the Black Block Consortia, much like its former parent organization the Galactic Council, had little love for mechanical lifeforms. What a polite, diplomatic way to put ‘fanatical hatred,’ especially when Cybertronians entered the picture. Not that their kind hadn’t _earned_ at least some of that ire with the destruction their civil war had wrought upon countless bystander planets and species. When Magnus mentioned this point—prudently not mentioning the Council’s own anti-mechanical biases—Optimus notably looked off to the side, as though he felt ashamed for once in his life. No, maybe not ashamed. It was hard to say. Whatever expression Optimus was making behind his mask, it was one Rodimus hadn’t seen before. Beside him, he heard Megatron shift his weight slightly to one leg, joints creaking ever-so-slightly. Funny, Rodimus thought. Both mechs responsible for Cybertron being blacklisted by the Council in the first place were present for this meeting and neither of them had the struts to look the representative in the eyes about it, like a couple of scolded sparklings who had gotten into a fistfight over some candy. 

“While we are uncertain of their goal, it was clear that, whatever their original plan had been, it had gone wrong somewhere in the execution. Subsequent interrogation of the surviving captured Consortia operatives yielded no further information, but they should now be en route to the nearest Council penal colony.” Though Rodimus could make a guess at their purposes. The Consortia had more malice saved up for Cybertonians, and Megatron in particular, than even the Council did. They would have been incensed that he’d been allowed a reprieve of any kind. With the stringent nature of the contract of his ‘release,’ it would have been easy to set up a situation where the only way forward would result in a breach. He bit his lip-plate as a reminder to keep his mouth shut.

“The Council will provisionally accept that the distress call was a trap set for presently unknown designs. However, the fact of the matter is that we are sorely lacking an explanation for the breach of contract.” There was a hiss in the representative’s voice. Did it mean anything? Was that just a noise that species made? Rodimus didn’t like it. It was aggravating on his audio processor, like a fine-grit sandpaper. Horrible noise, like steam escaping containment, like the sound he imagined his burns would make if they made noise. Then again, that’s how organic voices worked, gas passing through some sort of shaped tube—Wait, they were still talking. “The guardian chip sent off an alarm signal, indicating that Megatronus of Tarn—” Did the Galactic Council always _have_ to use full names? It was getting pretty annoying. “—had left the confines of the _Lost Light_.”

Ah, yes, the guardian chip. The stupid fucking tattletale they’d stuck in the back of Megatron’s head. It originally was supposed to be an I/D chip, rigged to explode if it crossed the bounds of the ship’s hull, but Galactic Council had been talked down from that incredibly _extreme_ measure. Now the chip simply sent an alarm to Council and Cybertronian security forces. It reminded Rodimus of one of those imaginary fences humans used for their animals—dogs, they’re called dogs, right. They could run up to the edge of the yard and bark, but no more than that. Then again, perhaps it was an apt comparison, given how much of Megatron’s ‘bite’ seemed to have been lost in recent years, especially if Drift’s stories of his time on the other side of the war were anything to go by.

“This _false_ alarm,” Ultra Magnus continued, “seems to have been a byproduct of using the holomatter projector in the course of the rescue operation that was mounted to retrieve the captain. When the guardian chip interacted with the holomatter, it couldn’t resolve the location data correctly and sent an alarm signal in error.” _That’s almost a good lie_ , Rodimus thought. He’d have to thank the armor-wearing minibot later.


	5. Chapter 5

While standing in Perceptor’s lab, Drift could remember watching the audio and video feeds from the camp cut on the bridge, how he had stood next to the captain’s chair where Megatron had been seated. He could still hear the quiet, hitched swearing in the captain’s rarely-spoken native language at the instant the feeds had dropped. It had been the second time in just the past cycle Drift had heard those words, but even without that it had been more than obvious to even someone like Riptide that the mission had gone entirely sideways. Commands had been barked to get them restored as soon as possible. They had needed eyes on the field down there, dammit! 

Drift had remained on the ship for this particular mission, having inadvertently injured his right knee earlier in the decacycle during hand-to-hand combat training with Rodimus. This had left him out of commission for his usual combat support role. That meant he’d had to limp to one of the consoles to try and re-establish the connection to the feeds, while Ultra Magnus had started coordinating with other bots on the bridge to pull equipment status reports. It had been no use. Some sort of jamming device had been released to purposefully block the signals from the camera drones and the commlinks.

Within a few minutes, contact had been re-established with the crew that had made it to the shuttle and the feeds blinked back on. The comm channels had been silent, save for the chatter on the shuttle. The camera feed showed nothing but the empty, faux encampment. Drift had tried to maneuver the camera drones further afield via the console to see if they could locate anyone. Nothing. Megatron had ordered a headcount on the crew of the shuttle from Rodimus. An uncomfortable silence had elapsed before Whirl then reported, with less tact than he probably ought to have used, that Rodimus had been left planetside. Something hadn’t felt right at the start of this mission and, in that moment when their resident watchmaker spoke, that sickening pressure in Drift’s fuel tank had magnified.

Drift shook his head, trying to not dwell on the worry, desperately trying to be present in the here and now as the remaining command staff discussed something—he must have zoned out—with Perceptor and Brainstorm. They seemed to be discussing the… holomatter projector, for some unknown reason. 

Weren’t they in a _hurry_? Why hadn’t they gone to the shuttle bay immediately? They needed to get down there and find Rodimus, needed to bring him back! The situation was _urgent_! Drift could feel burning heat inside his chest, righteous anger at time being wasted. If not for the hobble in his leg, he would have already run off and taken that shuttle to the planet’s surface, swords at the ready. Didn’t they _care_? That was _his_ best friend down there doing some stupid dangerous slag and the dumbaft needed a bail! Weren’t Megatron, beyond his austere solemnity, and Minimus, underneath all of that heavy armor and professional detachment, Rodimus’ friends too? How dare they abandon him—as though, Rodimus hadn’t ever abandoned _them_ … He took a deep ventilation. Then he finally heard the words actually being said.

“I need the holomatter projector to get on the ground and find him.” Right, Megatron couldn’t leave the ship. Even to save Rodimus or they’d both—He must have been trying to find away around the fence, not dismiss the seriousness of the situation. Drift shook his head, trying to banish doubt. Even if by now he _knew_ better, millions of years wearing a different badge under horrific orders from a harsher, colder version of the mech in front of him, sometimes Drift still struggled with his expectations. It was a bit hypocritical of him, but accepting the difficulty was an important part of spiritual growth.

“It’s not usable right now.” Perceptor gestured with an arm to the workbench littered with the innards that were presumably required for the projector to work correctly. Brainstorm was practically elbow-deep in the parts on the table and said something about Rodimus himself having asked them to make some major adjustments to the projector the other orn. They were summarily asked to leave. 

Stepping back out into the hall with the others, Drift felt a roiling burn in his fuel tanks at the thought that certain crew members were ‘too busy’ with their project to assist in an _emergency_. Even if the projector wasn’t working and Megatron’s initial plan wasn’t possible, couldn’t they have at least put the damn thing aside and helped in some other way? Perceptor was a crack shot with a rifle, for Primus’ sake! Brainstorm could make a bomb out of a paperclip! They could help! Why weren’t they? Why were they just—He sighed, tilting his head back to look blankly at the ceiling and mentally counting backwards from ten. Calm. They needed to be calm. _He_ needed to be calm. Rodimus would _want_ him to be calm.

As they all stood there just outside of Perceptor’s laboratory after not exactly being kicked out, Drift knew they all shared the same thought: _If I had been there, this wouldn’t have happened._

Ultra Magnus slowly, almost hesitantly raised an arm, one servo cautiously outstretched to make a point. His stance was tense, even more so than his usual upright posture. It was difficult for Drift to read what exactly the armor-wearing minibot was feeling. Was Minimus… scared for Rodimus’ safety? They were quite close after all, it would make sense.

“Time is of the essence, so I’ll go—”

“ _No_.” Megatron’s refusals were generally rather abrupt but this bordered on _terse_. One hand rested on his hip-guard and the other was raised, palm flat and perpendicular to his body, like he was about to scold Magnus for his presumptuousness. Drift noticed that the captain’s optics were offline all the while, as though he didn’t want to see the reactions to his words. What could he be thinking?

Unclenching his jaw and opening his mouth to volunteer himself, despite knowing better, the third-in-command started to speak, only to be cut off with a dismissive wave of a large black hand before any words made it to freedom.

“No, _you’re_ not going either,” came the peremptory command. “Not in your condition.”

So _that’s_ what he was thinking.

Ultra Magnus and Drift glanced at each other for a moment, sharing a knowing, resigned look that they usually did when Rodimus was about to embark on another half-baked scheme. Perhaps… a bit of Rodimus’ impetuousness had finally rubbed off on Megatron. That, combined with Drift’s knowledge that their captain, even as a warlord, had always been the sort to prefer to do things himself, left little room for doubt as to the new plan. Without any explanation, the large, grey mech brusquely turned and marched off down the hall in the direction of the shuttle bays, vanishing around a corner. When weighing the options of breaching the contract versus abandoning Rodimus to fate, Megatron must have decided that whatever the Galactic Counsel might decide to do to him and Rodimus was preferable to the unknown.

“You’re _not_ going out there alone!” Megatron was followed shortly by hurried, heavy footfalls as Ultra Magnus’ blue back disappeared from view after him.

There was one last order called out from around the bend in the hall as Drift stood there, momentarily dumbfounded in the hall: “Drift, you have the bridge!”

Perhaps Perceptor had known, from a wealth of experience, that this, running off to fetch their missing captain, would happen and that his and Brainstorm’s help… wouldn’t be needed. An awfully cold way to show it though. How lucky Rodimus was to have so many care for him, Drift thought, even if he was too wrapped up in his own processor to really notice. Taking another deep ventilation and knowing that monitoring the situation as asked was the best way he could assist, Drift quickly and gingerly limped for the bridge.


	6. Chapter 6

They had marched Rodimus a fair ways away from the thicket where they’d cornered him, at least a few miles away, beyond where the camera drones could have searched for him. He’d been slightly too tall for their entryway and had been forced to duck. Though the ceilings inside had more room for him, the small entryway told him they hadn’t anticipated bringing any _living_ Cybertronians inside. The acrid smell of the air irritated his olfactory sensor. Is that… just what this species smelled like? _Ew!_ He scrunched up his nose in a fruitless bid to banish the odor. Whatever these black-clad aliens were planning, it had clearly already gone wrong, though he had no way of knowing just how wrong. 

Now Rodimus had no idea what exactly they had intended for him as he allowed them to lead him deeper underground. He had always hated being underground. It was claustrophobic, but this time he knew he had to endure it. Occasionally, to keep up the pretense, he pretended to hesitate, causing his captors to prod him roughly in the legs with the muzzles of their firearms. With every step further into the facility, he gained invaluable intelligence. Location data. Supply stocks. Personnel. Weaponry. The occasional logo provided not-so-subtle clues as to the identity of his captors. Pipes lined the ceiling, something liquid whooshing softly through them. If only his comm was working, he thought, frowning bitterly at his wrist, he could have provided _all_ of this data _directly_ to his favorite tactician.

And then suddenly they stopped, having marched him to the end of a hallway. Cornered again. They lifted their guns again, the little rifles whirring as they warmed up. Okay, so much for simply being captured, but why drag him all the way down here? Unless they just wanted a quiet place to—His optics snapped to the ceiling as he remembered. Pipes overhead. A faint smell of oil barely noticeable through the stench of the resident gunmen. _Aha!_ Reaching into his subspace and pulling out a small round lump, Rodimus prayed to whatever powers that be that whatever flowed overhead would be flammable. 

“So, uh, thanks for inviting me over, but I kinda gotta go now.”

With a daring smirk, he threw the lump at the ceiling.

“Bye!”

_KABOOM!_

Thank you, Brainstorm, he thought as the ceiling exploded into flame with a hail of shrapnel from the pipes. Rodimus shielded his face with his arm, unable to see the fates of the unfortunate soldiers nearest the ignition point. Bless that former Con for those weird explosives that looked like candies. That had actually been how Rodimus had acquired them. Thinking they were probably delicious, Rodimus had swiped them from a bowl in Brainstorm’s lab and stuffed them in his subspace. Good thing Megatron had stopped him before he ate one. Blew shit up pretty damn good though, he thought. 

The former Prime turned on his heels and bolted, back the way he’d come as the surviving soldiers scattered in a panic. The pipes carried the blaze along them, crackling and bursting open at weak points with jets of lit fuel. Something seemed to be slowing the ignition of the oil somewhat—flow control valves in the pipeline? That bought some time but they weren’t strong enough to outright stop the chain reaction. He followed the pipes back towards the entrance, even if they were rapidly becoming a hazard in their own right, an explosive trail of breadcrumbs. Sure, he was destroying a lot of potentially useful supplies by breaking out this way, but he was also destroying an enemy base. Single-handedly no less, he thought. _Ha!_

Nearing the entrance to the bunker, he had already started to lag behind the leading edge of the blaze in the fuel lines. Even if he hadn’t lost velocity by having to dodge the burning oil spewed from burst pipes, he knew he would never be able to keep up. The path in front of him became increasingly filled with the blaze and assorted debris. It didn’t help that he knew he wouldn’t be able to duck in time to go through the fast-approaching door even if he did make it that far.

_Wait._

Spying a metal desk placed against a wall in the hallway, he picked it up. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d used a random item for a deflecting shield and it probably wouldn’t be the last. It was worth the burns on his shoulder he’d earned for hesitating below a rent fuel pipe joint to pick the damn desk up. Soldiers, too distracted to bother with their loose captive, were still screaming as they ran hither and thither in a panicked attempt to evacuate. Shouldn’t they have practiced evacuation drills before now?

Even with the desk blocking the worst of the blazing oil from landing on him as he dashed, Rodimus still had the obstacle of the door. Luckily, he still had more explosive candy—

_KABOOM!_

Rodimus hoped they weren’t particularly attached to that door… or the supporting structure around it. Tossing aside the scorched, makeshift shield, he ran through the field outside of the now smoking bunker that the soldiers had built into a nearby hill. The soft grasses and mud would have stuck in his tires, making a quicker escape in his other mode nonviable. He kept clicking the button on his comm as he ran, hoping he’d escaped the range of the signal jammers. Or maybe destroyed the signal jammers in the conflagration behind him. Either way.

“Megs, c’mon, I need a pickup here! Send somebody with the shuttle!”

A distant, but growing shape loomed in the sky in front of him. Rodimus skidded to a stop, nearly pitching himself face first into the soggy ground. He smiled. _The shuttle._

It seemed to be struggling to go in a straight line. Ah. Megatron was driving. Dude was always a shitty pilot. Good thing he had to stay on the— _He left the ship._

“Hey, maybe send _anybody_ else. It’s not an emergency—”

The comm at long last finally crackled to life, a sound he never thought he’d be so happy to hear.

“Move. I’m trying to park.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Both the Galactic Council and the Cybertronian government will receive the full, detailed report by the end of the cycle,” Ultra Magnus assured their interrogators, though Optimus had asked essentially no questions. He probably still saw Megatron has his own personal problem and responsibility. Letting the Galactic Council have so much control of the situation, with the Cybertronian government being a party of interest basically in name only, probably really got under his plating, Rodimus thought. 

The transmission of the report also meant that the self-important “leader” of Cybertron, Starscream, was also going to read about this incident. _Great._ Oh well, that’s not the worst thing ever but the last thing Rodimus wanted was to give that clown something else to laugh at. At least they basically never had to see him. He never quite liked the way Starscream looked at him and he _especially_ didn’t care for the way the seeker looked at Megatron. Rodimus shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other at the thought. Even though he knew no one else had moved, he instinctively looked to the side to be sure that the grey junk pile hadn’t gone anywhere. It was unsettling, being _seen_ and presumably _known_ without having done anything—Ah, right. Stuffy bureaucrats were still talking. _Blah, blah, blah,_ he thought. 

At least it seemed like this parade of excruciating formalities was almost over. Drift took a few cautious steps closer to the others, if the creak in the floor could be trusted, but he still remained otherwise distant. He was merely a witness to the proceedings this time. He had bombarded Rodimus with questions and fuss when he’d finally gotten back to the ship the other orn. What a worrywart, but he’d been grateful to know his best friend was trying to look out for him, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud.

“We will not be using our holomatter projectors in this way in the future, in order to prevent such _false alarms_.” Ultra Magnus turned off the datapad he’d been using throughout his presentation of the facts, at last lowering it. Rodimus wondered, while watching as Magnus stood stock still, somewhat why he still went around in the armor, even after promising Megatron that he would destroy it and live as his true self. Was this something else that Rodimus could blame on the Galactic Council? Probably. The Magnus armor came with authority that even the Galactic Council respected. They would have considered Minimus, the real Minimus, a nobody. Rodimus had trapped himself. He’d trapped Megatron. And he’d trapped Minimus as well. He opened his mouth, like he meant to say something, but nothing came out.

“Yes, of course.” The representative pulled what was probably their mouth into something resembling a sneer. “See that you don’t.”

“It seems to me that Ultra Magnus has sufficiently clarified the situation.” Optimus had said nothing since the start of this ‘inquiry,’ so Rodimus flinched slightly at hearing his static-riddled voice coming from off to the side.

There was what he thought was a resigned sigh from the video feed.

“Agreed. The Galactic Council considers this matter closed and no disciplinary action is deemed necessary at this time.”

When the video feed from the Galactic Council representative finally cut, a sense of relief washed over him, not unlike on the shuttle ride back from the planet where Megatron had insisted on giving him a preliminary checkup for injuries. _Now_ he simply felt content that this incident was over, the adventure not cut short by vindictive organics in stupid hats. A peace, however temporary, settled in his fuel pump.

A staticky cough from the side drew his attention. Optimus, it seemed, had not left. It was still pretty clear that he was frowning behind that mask of his on the holographic projection. Ultra Magnus could be heard somehow straightening up even further as the command crew, minus Megatron, turned to face the source of the cough. Megatron simply turned his head, as though, for once, it wasn’t worth it to give Optimus his complete attention. Perhaps he was ashamed. Rodimus could feel a twinge in his speedometer. He always got that feeling whenever there was impending nagging, but at least this time it wouldn’t be coming from someone he had to see every single orn.

“I’m not upset.” _Oh no._ “I’m disappointed.”

_Fuck._ Now he was going to think about Optimus’ dissatisfied face for _orns._


	8. Chapter 8

The orn after the debacle with the Galactic Council and Optimus Prime on the bridge, Rodimus found himself outside of the door to a room that had recently been refitted with holomatter technology. Rather than create an avatar for them to blend into an alien society, the newly-built projectors in this room had been reconfigured to replicate a three-dimensional environment with holomatter within the bounds of the room. After his gift of a rock had been so thoroughly rejected, he had needed another way to break Megatron out of his rut. Sure, it had taken a number of orns after pestering Brainstorm and Perceptor to make it, but luckily the two of them had an unnatural love and aptitude for turning the laws of physics over their knees for a solid span—nevermind. He thought better of _not_ finishing the metaphor. The refitting had just been completed that morning, so this was the most likely place on the ship he’d find the mech he was looking for.

He didn’t bother knocking, instead only opening the door and stepping in. Then again, knocking wasn’t something Rodimus could generally be accused of doing anyway. Besides, this time he had a pretty solid idea of what or, at least, who would be beyond the door.

Sure enough, Megatron, his broad back to Rodimus, was seated with his legs crossed—would he even be able to _get back up_ on his own?—on the ground at the edge of the holographic stream, watching the water as it babbled away into the imaginary horizon at the end of the imaginary meadow. Lush wild grasses pretended to blanket the floor. The fake sun was setting in the distance. The technology could use a few tweaks, but if Rodimus squinted, this _seemed_ real enough. Maybe this would help after all though he can’t imagine why Megatron would choose _this_ organic environment to emulate. Why not some favorite place on Cybertron or something? Sure, Rodimus had previously ribbed him about preferring worlds purged of organic life, but he was pretty sure that there was _some_ kernel of truth in there.

“Ultra Magnus recommended the sound of water as something soothing to try.” It was almost as though the old bastard had heard his thoughts while he approached. How’d he know Rodimus was _even_ there? Did he have optics in the back of his head or what? “You have a distinctive walk when you _think_ you’re being quiet.” _Perceptive_ and maybe just a _little bit_ creepy. Then again his co-captain had noticed that apparently Rodimus did a specific little dance whenever he was excited about something. Maybe the younger of the two just had easy to read body language. That was probably it, because why else would Megatron pay that much attention to his mannerisms?

“Well, that answers one of my questions.” Rodimus flopped himself down next to the other mech on the grass, legs splayed out haphazardly in front of him as he leaned back on his hands. His shoulders still stung a touch from his run-in with the burning oil, but Megatron had patched him up on the shuttle. He hated being fussed over but the old bastard had played the ‘who is the medic’ card. _Unfair!_ Yet he had felt at ease with the familiar attention and gentle, yet clinical poking of hands that dwarfed his own to see if all had been in order. The matronly tutting over his scorched, overheated plate had somehow been soothing all while Ultra Magnus had complained from the pilot’s seat that he should have been the one driving the entire time. He laughed at the memory, a bluff as he wiggled his feet to displace nervous energy. 

“Look, uh, Megs, I’m sorry about the rock. It was insensitive and I hope this, uh… thingy here—” He waved his hand in a vague gesture at the room around them. “—Makes up for that and, uh, for you having to come after me on that planet. I know you had to violate the—”

“I _liked_ the rock.” 

It was Rodimus’ turn to be cut off for once. He crinkled his nose and turned his shoulders to look incredulously at the grey junk heap next to him. The violation of the terms of his release went unacknowledged. Megatron probably didn’t want to think about it. That was understandable. They’d come so close to having everything ruined. He shouldn’t have presumed— _great_ , another thing to spiral over later. At least now he had the opportunity to talk about something less… heavy.

“What d’you mean you _liked_ it? You’d seemed pretty pissed back there, dude. Not gonna lie.”

A moment of silence passed between them. Megatron’s shoulders slumped slightly, like he’d wilted. It was always strange seeing him look like he’d just been scolded. It seemed like something that shouldn’t happen. He’d only heard tell of when _Perceptor_ cowed the old mech into sitting down. What Rodimus _thought_ might be pity tugged at his spark.

“I am… unaccustomed to _gifts_.” Ah, yes, that’s right. He’d never really had friends before ending up on this ship, had he? Being fanatically worshiped via an unintentional cult of personality and having friends were _decidedly_ different. Well, ol’ Megs did have that Soundwave guy, but last Rodimus had heard, they were kind of on the outs at the moment. ‘Ideological differences’ had been how Megatron had _very diplomatically_ put it when it had come up once. He hadn’t wanted to ask if Starscream had been a friend, because that was a can of worms not even Rodimus dared to open no matter his curiosity. Maybe one day. 

“It’s on the shelf in my quarters.” So that’s where it went—Hell, as far as Rodimus knew, that was the only decoration in Megatron’s quarter. The mech basically lived in a broom closet, initially because that’s where they had space but then he just seemed to… be used to living that way. Kinda sad when Rodimus thought about it—Wait, he _liked_ the rock. _Megs_ liked _his_ present. Yes. He felt like he’d just won _something_ but he had no idea what.

“ _Great!_ I just knew you’d like it. I _always_ give the best gifts and—”

“I liked it because it was from _you_. And, _furthermore_ , I came after you because _you_ were in danger.” 

_Oh._ His spark need to stop skipping spins. That was kind of not okay. The worst part was, when Rodimus scrutinized the older mech’s face, it seemed that Megatron had no idea the implications of any of what he’d just said. Had that been unintentional? Was he just stupid? Megatron could be pretty awkward socially but damn this was a new level— _Wait._

“Hey, Megs, you know what?”

There was a resigned sigh, like he was expecting Rodimus to say something off-the-wall again.

“What?”

Rodimus reached out and grabbed a giant, unattended hand that had been resting on a knee that would likely protest getting back up again. There was a brief flinch at the contact. He’d seen Megatron occasionally struggle to get out of a chair when he thought no one else was looking. That’s probably why he was almost always the last one off the bridge at the end of a shift.

“You’re an idiot, but that’s okay, my dude.” _You’re **my** idiot._

He received a half-offended growl in return but that captured hand didn’t retreat.


End file.
